I'm never drinking again.

Ever.

The pounding headache, cotton mouth, and torn up stomach are reason enough.

But the loss of inhibitions?

No. Thank. You.

I push myself out of Emma's bed—she's still in her shiny silver cocktail dress and most of her makeup—and slink to the bathroom across the hall.

There's noise downstairs. The drip of a coffee maker. The scratch of a spatula. The steady footsteps of a man I can never look in the eyes again.

Not after last night.

I want a birthday kiss.

Ugh.

Inhibitions are underrated. Criminally underrated. They keep you from making a fool of yourself.

They keep you from stepping out of line.

They keep you safe, period.

If it weren't for my inhibitions, everyone would know. And no one would look at me the way they do now—like it's possible I'm on my way to becoming a strong, independent woman.

I pee. Shower. Brush my teeth. Grab my pastel pink makeup bag—the one I adorned in song lyrics—and pick out exactly what I need.

Emma is the one who got me into makeup, but we wear it so differently. For her, it's fun. A way to express herself. To experiment.

For me, it's another necessary component of my shield. No one asks if you're okay if you look polished and awake. Nobody dives past the surface. Which means nobody gets closer than they should.

After I clean every spilled drop of powder foundation from the counter and towel-dry my hair, I head back to Emma's room.

She's out like a light. Her shoes, bag, and jewelry are strewn around the room. I take a moment to put everything away—hers and mine.

I practically live here. Which is why the room is as clean as it is.

I love Emma. She's my best friend, the only person I trust. Well, besides Grandma.

I say this with love.

She's a slob. A proud slob. One who insists she prefers her room messy. Supposedly, it inspires her creativity.

I don't care.

I can't stand it.

We fight about my clean-up efforts all the time. Usually, I get Brendon on my side. Usually, he delivers one of those I don't care if you're technically an adult, my house, my rules dad lines of his.

But right now...

I'm not sure how I'm going to face him after last night.

I check my phone. No texts from my parents, not since the see you after work tomorrow, sweetie ones I got last night. My Facebook is still flush with Happy Birthday notifications from people I haven't talked to since middle school.

It's kind of nice to feel popular. Even if it's obviously fake. Don't get me wrong. I'm friendly with lots of people. Most of the people I know, save all the reporters on the school paper who complained about my high standards, think I'm sweet, nice, easy going. And they're right. Sort of.

But they're not my friends.

They don't know me. They only know the pretty, polished Kaylee who gets straight As and smiles a perfect customer service smile no matter how ridiculous the complaint.

My stomach growls as the smell of bacon wafts into the room. Then it screams food, no thank you.

Bacon isn't happening.

But I should eat something.

I should get this torture over with.

Brendon is my best friend's older brother. I can't avoid him forever.

I pack my bag, change into my work clothes, and slink downstairs.

The white light of morning falls over the wide-open room. It casts Brendon in an angelic glow—so not him, but so right all the same.

God, those dark eyes, that black hair, the strong features—

I want to drink in every inch of him.

And I'm not even gawking at his chiseled torso or his ink yet.

He moves from his spot in the kitchen, behind the oven, and turns toward me. "Hey."

"Hey." I keep my voice even. Casual. Like I didn't ask him to kiss me. Like he didn't offer to spank me. Like I get that he was teasing, that it didn't mean anything, and not like I spent the entire night imagining him pulling me onto his lap.

"You look fucking awful, Kay."

"Hey." I brush my hair onto my right shoulder. "It's not my fault Emma threw away her blow dryer so she wouldn't fry her hair further."

His lips spread into a smile that lights up his dark eyes.

My knees knock together.

That's all it takes for me to crumble—his smile.

But, God, it's a gorgeous smile.

Has it always been this hard to breathe around Brendon? I'm not ashamed to say I've had a crush on him since the first day I saw him on that couch all tall, handsome, and brooding.

But it's been the better part of a decade.

There have been other guys. Dates. Boyfriends. Sloppy make out sessions at parties.

And that big chunk of time last year where I didn't want anyone or anything.

"You always look good." He motions to the table sit. "It's your expression."

"Yeah?" I don't want to take orders from him—well, not while we're both dressed—but with the hangover and the lust mixing together sitting is all I can manage.

I take a seat, cross my legs, smooth my button up shirt. The restaurant switched to black shirts six months ago. They hide stains better, but they also suck up all the energy in the room.

"You want tea?" he asks.

"I can make it."

"I know."

"I want to make it."

He shoots me that same stern look. "Which one?"

I press my lips together. I keep a dozen boxes of different teas here. "Iron Goddess of Mercy."

He chuckles. "Suits you."

"You've used that one before."

"It still suits you."

My laugh breaks up the tension in my chest. I'm nowhere near close to badass enough for a label like that, but there are ways that it fits.

Brendon turns on the kettle. Grabs a mug and a tin of tea from the top cabinet.

I try not to obsess over the way his t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders. "You're up early."

"You too."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Hmm."

"What's hmm?"

"It's hmm."

"It's something."

The kettle steams. He pours water into the mug with those strong, steady hands of his. It's not just that I think about what his hands would feel like on my body.

I do.

But I also watch him work.

It's a thing of beauty, watching Brendon draw on paper or on someone's skin. Okay, everything he does is a thing of beauty. But when he's working on a tattoo, he gets this look in his eyes.

Like there's nothing else in the world.

Like he's exactly where he belongs.

I want that. To know what I'm supposed to do, where I'm supposed to be.

There are only two times I feel at home: when I'm reading and when I'm writing.

But neither of those are a career.

I can't write Hunger Games fan fiction full time.

I'm too embarrassed to show anyone but Grandma said fan fiction.

"I'm not gonna lecture you about drinking too much." He crosses the room, sets my cup on the table in front of me. His eyes lock with mine. "I'm just glad you feel like shit."

"You're cruel."

"You're just figuring that out?"

My smile spreads over my lips as I shake my head. "Why are you up this early?"

"I'll give you one guess."

"A tattoo."

He nods.

"Doesn't the shop open at ten?"

"Yeah. This guy is an old friend."

"You mean an interesting tattoo."

He smirks as he scoops eggs onto plates. Two plates. "You know me too well."

"Can I see?" I love seeing his work, but he's secretive about his faded black sketchbook. When he isn't reading or watching TV, he's drawing tattoos in that book.

"If you eat."

My shoulders tense.

Who the hell does he think he is telling me when I should eat?

I'm the only person who says what I do with my body.

But I should eat.

And I need to see that sketchbook.

If Brendon wants to believe I'm taking his bribe, that's fine by me.

I nod an okay.

Brendon brings our plates to the table. He sits across from me and fixes his coffee with a splash of milk and a hint of sugar.

He brings his mug to his lips and takes a long sip.

I do the same with my tea. Mmm, sweet, sweet caffeine. Nutty, rich, warm oolong.

"So," I say. "Where's the tattoo mockup?"

He grabs his worn black sketchbook from the chair next to his and starts flipping through the pages.

This is a normal morning.

Like nothing happened last night.

Like we're still friends. Just friends.

And as much as I hate that we're just friends, it's better than pretty much every other reasonable possibility.

* * *

My opening shift drags on forever. It's a slow Friday morning, but my manager Jake talks me into staying late to cover for someone who called in sick.

Em chides me about being a pushover, but it's not like that. It's about taking responsibility. If I don't do it, no one will.

Besides, I need the tip money.

I get home a hundred dollars richer—and that's not counting the California state minimum wage that comes with my paycheck.

I live with my parents, in an apartment in Santa Monica. It's a nice place a dozen blocks from the beach.

It's small, but it's ours.

And it's calm. Quiet. Especially on Friday afternoons.

Only it's not.

My parents aren't at work.

They're sitting at the kitchen table, looking at me with regret in their eyes.

Mom motions to the seat across from hers. "Kaylee, sweetie. Will you sit down? We need to talk."